


The Last King of the Forsworn

by ktyxdovahkiin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Durcorach the Black Drake, Forsworn, Longhouse Emperors, Reach natives, historical oppression, historical redress, indigenous peoples
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:09:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktyxdovahkiin/pseuds/ktyxdovahkiin
Summary: The Dragonborn and her companion Lydia have come to speak to Madanach, chief of Druadach Redoubt, King of the Reach, leader of the Forsworn. This is what he has to say to them.Some lines are inspired by the following texts: Chief Seattle's speech in 1854 (the authenticity of existing translations is a subject of much debate), the novel "The Penultimate Truth" by Philip K. Dick, the novel "The Last of the Mohicans" by James Fenimore Cooper, lyrics of "Remember" (the ending theme of the movie "Troy") as performed by Josh Groban, Don Corleone's lines in "The Godfather", lyrics of "Anthem" from the Cold-War musical "Chess".
Comments: 13
Kudos: 13





	The Last King of the Forsworn

_I am the one voice in the cold wind_   
_That whispers_   
_And if you listen_   
_You’ll hear me call across the sky_

A fog can drift into you from outside, you know. A fog can invade. Some mornings, when I stand outside and look out at the valleys and mountains of my kingdom, I watch the fog. The fog of the Druadach Mountains. The fog of the Reach. And even though it is in the morning, I feel the world darkening, and the fog of my own kingdom scares me. But not as much as the other fog, the one inside that does not invade, but stretches and billows out inside the empty parts of you. That fog is called loneliness. Do you know that fog, Dragonborn?

Look up at this sky. Yonder sky has wept tears of compassion upon my people for centuries untold. In the First Era, we were Ten, and then the Ten became One, and we stood as one against the Empress Hestra. Red Eagle led us, and fell in battle, one against thousands, slaying thousands before he was slain. Then our land was torn in two by the Emperor Reman Cyrodiil. It has never been whole since.

You bring me the sword of Red Eagle as a gift, you say. Yet you know that many of my people see this as an insult. “Red Eagle’s Bane”, they call it now, that used to be “Red Eagle’s Fury”. And whose strong arm was it that wielded it and brought the final death upon one of our people’s greatest heroes of legend? The arm of your companion, standing beside you. The stalwart champion of the Nords. Hail to you, Lydia of Whiterun. You won a great victory in that cairn, you and your Dragonborn. You destroyed the great hope of a nation. Did the sky thunder with approval for you, when Red Eagle finally fell? Did the Dragonborn here Shout your victory into the sky?

Forgive an old man his harsh words. I have grown bitter. I offer you my apologies, for what little they are worth. You can see that I am no Durcorach, I am no Black Drake. I will not be sitting the Ruby Throne of Cyrodiil in any future we can see; no Longhouse Emperor sits here before you. I have trouble sitting on my own wicker chair here. You know you are speaking now to the last King of the Reach. And so, it is truly a wonder to me that you offer me your friendship, for I know you have no need of mine, Dragonborn.

Your people are many, where mine are fewer each year. We are fading into the mist of the evening. Your nation has healed its wounds and grows strong. And soon, you go south. Yes, I hear somewhat of the world outside these mountains. My people once went south. That was our greatest mistake. Perhaps it may be different for you. Or perhaps not.

You bring me now an offer of friendship and goodwill, and a new hope for my people. The Jarl of Markarth will buy our lands, you say, but will allow us to live on and work portions of it. This is kind of you, you who have no need to show kindness to a people who once stood proud in a kingdom of their own, but now are scattered and few. I do not wish to mourn our untimely decay, but still I do, for what is a king but the chief mourner of his people? You tell me that if we change as a people, learn to live side by side with your ways alongside our own, that we will know peace and plenty. You have won great battles against the world-destroyers, the Thalmor; Skyrim has the freedom once more to call on Talos, who once was Man but now is God. You tell me that we, the people of the Reach, will know the same freedom, and worship as we wish.

But what is Talos to us? He loves your people and hates mine. I remember Ulfric Stormcloak and the massacre he perpetrated. His Voice was like yours, Dragonborn. Oh, yes, yours proved many times stronger, so strong that in comparison his Voice was like the ill-tempered wail of an unruly child. We all know this. But his tantrums were enough to end the lives of many of my subjects. That is what we know of Talos: death and suffering. People say, now, that you are beginning to _mantle_ Talos: to walk like him until he walks like you, as the mystics put it. That you are already half a god, performing some of the “Walking Ways.” What has that to do with us? What did any of that ever have to do with us?

We worship the Old Gods. We know the Old Ways that you Nords have forgotten. Your worship of Dibella, just to name one example, is weak, like a few drops of milk swirling in a bowl of water. We know Dibella’s true ways! Hers is the blood of the moons, the blood of childbirth, the blood of life, the blood of death. Dibella isn’t propitiated with wine, like the priestesses do in Markarth. No, the only libation fit for her is fresh blood. And there are many among us who would rather spill their blood than drink the milk of the Empire.

I only spoke with you when we were together in Cidhna Mine, and after. You were very different then. Very different. How far you have come, Dragonborn. How very far indeed.

Kaie, bring me some water from the spring there. I’m thirsty. And bring some for the Dragonborn and her companion. Yes, offer the water in the skin to Lydia, with your own hands, daughter. These two have shown us respect, by coming into our lands in peace, and coming before me speaking with respect. We, too, shall show them respect.

Respect is important. Don’t you think so, Dragonborn? In the Mine you showed me respect. Madanach remembers, and never forgets.

The water tastes sweet, doesn’t it? Perhaps sweeter to me than to you. This water is of my land. Our land. You Nords do not relish your honeyed mead as much as we relish the taste of our own mountain water, in a land that belongs to us.

I will tell you a story. When my daughter Kaie was married to her wife, I declared a great feast, and invited the chiefs and wise-women of all five Redoubts. And to the wedding feast came one of the Reachmen, one of my people. But not of the Forsworn. No, not Ainethach. Respectable landowner that he is, he never expressed anything but dislike and contempt for those of us who were fighting for his freedom. The silver flowed between his fingers like blood, and trickled away into the coffers of Markarth, and he was content.

But when he came before me, Ainethach was anything but content. He was hunched over, hollow-eyed. He said he craved an audience with me. He said, it was my daughter’s wedding day, and no King of the Reach would refuse a boon on such a day.

He told me this:

“Hail, Madanach. I believed in the life I led, under the rule of the Nords. I believed in the silver that came out of my mines. The silver has made my fortune. And I gave tribute to the Silver-Bloods of Markarth. It was a business arrangement, but in all but name it was a tribute. Still, I was happy to pay it, for I thought we spoke a common language, they and I, the language of businessmen. We shared the honor of coin, I thought. Fair dealing, value for value.

“Two weeks ago, they sent thugs. Mercenaries, the same ones who always do their dirty work. I told Atar and his men that I had paid Thonar for the month already. They said they were there to collect an additional protection tax, because they had increased the size of their sellsword band, and so could protect me better against the Forsworn. Against you. I refused. I said I had to take this matter up with Thonar. They beat me. They took my silver and my gold. And when I tried to bring the matter before the Jarl, he asked me exactly whom I was accusing. I could bring no evidence against the Silver-Bloods. The Jarl levied a fine on Atar and his thugs – a fine! A fraction of what was taken from me, and only a small portion was returned to me. And the Silver-Blood family paid their fine for them! As we left Understone Keep, Atar looked at me, and laughed!

“When I returned to my home, I sat down for a long time, thinking. That was when I realized: for true justice, I must come to you. I must seek out Madanach.”

So I said to him, “Why did you go to the Jarl? Why did you not come to me first?”

He said, “Please, help me. I will give you anything you ask. I am still fairly rich – I can pay in silver, or in gold. Or in needful things for your warriors.”

I said, “What do you want of me?”

He said, “You must convince Thonar Silver-Blood that it is not worth it for him to squeeze me harder. We must go back to the previous arrangement, which was tolerable and beneficial enough to his family. He must not send Atar with more exorbitant extortion.”

I told him, “That I cannot do.”

He wept, then, a man of the Reach weeping for his silver. “Please, Madanach. Help me. There is no one else.”

I said then, “Ainethach. We’ve known each other for many years, but this is the first time you’ve come to me for counsel, for help. I cannot recall that you ever invited me into your home for a meal, even though rightfully I am your king. Let us be frank, Ainethach. You never wanted my friendship. You never wanted the friendship of the King in Rags.”

He said, “I didn’t want trouble with the Jarl’s government.”

I said, “I understand. You found a comfortable place in Skyrim. You had a good living, the Nords let you own the mines. The Jarl’s patrols protected you, you had his law. And you didn’t need a friend of me. But now, you come to me and say, Madanach, help me, protect me. But you don’t ask with respect. You don’t offer friendship. You don’t even think to call me King. Instead, you come before me on the day my daughter is to be married, and you ask me to do a difficult thing. For money. I am a mercenary to you.”

He tried then to address me as his king. But I went on, “Ainethach… what have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? My people here at Druadach have never raided your mines. They have never molested you or your workers. I suffered in Cidhna Mine for many long years, forgotten and betrayed by most of you, yet when I was set free and came here, I gave the orders: no native of the Reach shall suffer at the hand of another native of the Reach. If you had come to me in friendship, Ainethach, the scum that bothered you would already be lying in pools of their own blood. Thonar Silver-Blood and his brother Thongvor would already be choking on their own silver.”

He fell to his knees before me, then, and said, “My king – I am not worthy to be your friend, but will you accept my fealty? My mines – the silver is yours.”

I shook my head and told him, “The mines are yours. Work them well. Remain rich. We do not begrudge you your wealth. But if I do this thing for you, Ainethach – there may come a day when the Forsworn of the Reach need your help. We are your people, Ainethach. When that day comes, will you help us?”

He assented. I said, “You shall have the help you ask for. I give you this, on Kaie’s wedding day, as a gift.”

And so, that is the explanation for what happened at Karthwasten recently, Dragonborn. It was a matter of justice. It was a king helping to protect his subject, because that subject had shown him respect at last. I am a forgiving king. I respect those who respect me, even if it takes years for them to come around.

That is our culture, Dragonborn. Founded upon respect. When Tiber Septim came, when he was still Hjalti Early-Beard, he came with a different culture. His culture was rapacious and insatiable. His culture was about the strong taking by force from the weak, because they could. From the days of Atmora of old it has been so. Do you deny it? Do you deny the very nature of Tiber Septim, whom you Nords call Talos of Atmora?

Is that your culture too, Dragonborn? Lydia? Well? Does Skyrim belong to the Nords?

Perhaps it matters little to whom Skyrim belongs, or any part of Skyrim. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter much where I spend the remainder of my days. I haven’t got many left, after all. A few more winters, or perhaps one more raid that goes bad, and then who is left to weep over my grave? Who will take the throne after me? Will Kaie be Queen of the Reach? Will the other redoubts accept her, will the Hagravens serve and aid her? She is strong of body, and her mind is sharp. But stronger and cleverer kings and queens before her have perished just the same. Do I wish for her to sit my throne after I am gone?

I think not, Kaie. I don’t want this for you.

The night of my people promises to be dark. No star will shine above the horizon to illuminate it. The fog presses in all around us. The sad-voiced winds sigh in the distance and recede. Kingdoms and Empires come and go. But the land remains. You know somewhat of this, I’m sure, Dragonborn. You know the truth of what I’m saying. The land was there, long before our nations’ lines were drawn. When no flags flew, when no armies stood, the land was already there, and it will remain after we’re gone.

Perhaps my fight is futile. Perhaps we should not have been so obstinate, so uncompromising. Maybe our war was doomed from the start. “Five Redoubts – not one less!” we demanded. The younger ones were the most hot-headed; the older ones among us, we remembered more of the grievances our people had suffered, yet we were the ones who still hoped that some favorable compromise could be achieved, from a position of strength, with mutual respect. The young ones delighted too much, I think, in ravaging our enemies, pillaging their homes and caravans.

Cortoran – now there was a hothead for you. He’d have challenged me for the throne before too long, I think, if he hadn’t been killed first. With his death went one of our Redoubts, and now where are we? What did his death buy us? What seed shall grow from the ground where his blood was spilled?

I see Uraccen down below, by the river. He is a hollow man now. He has mourned ceaselessly for his daughter Uaile ever since he learned of her demise. Every time he goes into battle he fights as a man seeking death. That is why it eludes him. Perhaps he’ll be happier as a Briarheart. Or perhaps he’d be better off dead.

Leave us now, Dragonborn. Leave us now, Lydia, Red Eagle’s Bane. We will ponder your proposal. I give you my word. I will not prevent anyone who wants to accept your amnesty from doing so. Let them go and live the lives of townspeople, merchants and traders, laborers and farmers, miners and hunters. Let them enlist with you and fight for you if they wish. Be just, and deal with them kindly, Dragonborn, for they and our honored dead are not altogether powerless. Respect them, and I promise you, they will respect you.

Let them freely visit any part of the Reach they wish. Let them worship as they will. This land belongs to us: every hill and cliff, every stream and ravine, every mountain and valley belongs to us, hallowed by the memories of our forebears. The soil under our feet responds more lovingly to our touch than to yours, because it is the ashes of our ancestors. Do this for my people, for me, Dragonborn, and I will thank you.

But for myself, I cannot accept. I am a king. A king is a symbol. And I must stand until my kingdom falls, and then fall with it. I have lived as a son of this land; I have lived as a slave, forced to betray my kingdom; with your aid I won free, and lived again as the chief servant to my people. I live as the last King of the Forsworn. I will die as the last King of the Forsworn.

_I am the one star that keeps burning_   
_So brightly_   
_It is the last light_   
_To fade into the rising sun_


End file.
